At Sanden International



After dad died, I took a couple of years off to write poetry. Wound up working on a machinery line with this company. Written during a smoke break.

Industrial Night -- no moonlight


a steady drum, a low roar, a chemical hiss, screeching air, a pneumatic kiss
whose mechanical caress sets the mind free

the crickets outchirp
the train's rolling
steel and whistle assault
the still evening.

All the twinkle is gone.

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